


Who am I?

by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Codependency, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:31:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John realizes he's no longer his own person and he's not sure when that happened.  Everything about him pertains to Sherlock and he's lost who he is in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who am I?

**Author's Note:**

> Another work that hasn't been betaed. Please forgive any typos or grammatical errors.

“I don’t know who I am anymore, Sherlock.” John paced, his voice cracking.  “I used to.  I used to have my own hobbies, my favorite foods, my own taste in music, my own friends, my own job.  Now I have nothing that isn’t in some way also your’s.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but the look on John’s face caused the words to drop unsaid.  He looked brittle, close to breaking, like his world was crumbling around him and he was clinging to the last ledge available.  They’d been arguing, something little, something trite, but somewhere in the argument about the shopping, he’d seen something in John snap.  The dam broke loose, and Sherlock didn’t know how to stop this torrent of emotional pain flowing out of John.

“I’m not me if I’m not with you.  I’m not John Watson, Army Doctor.  I’m John Watson, assistant and blogger to Sherlock Holmes.  I don’t go out to the pubs with my friends anymore.  I can’t recall the last time I saw a movie in the cinema.  I used to enjoy sitting down at a restaurant and enjoying a casual meal.  Now, I follow you through the streets of London on wild chases, putting my life at risk on a daily basis.  My food comes from takeaway or whenever I can grab a bite in the moment.  Any music is you playing on your violin while I write up the latest blog post about what you’ve been up to.  I don’t have a life of my own anymore, Sherlock.  I live life the way you’ve dictated it, and I don’t know when or how that happened.”  There were tears in John’s eyes, threatening to seep out and cause that final ledge to crumble.  These thoughts had obviously been percolating in his head for some time.

“But you enjoy doing all those things, John,” Sherlock stumbled over the words, “You’re not one not to speak up if you didn’t.  I’d know, you’d tell me.”

John froze in his pacing and turned, obviously hurt, “I TRIED to have my own life.  I dated, I had a job I enjoyed and was good at, I went out for a pint with Mike, but that’s all changed.  Why didn’t I speak up? I did at first. But when I did you’d find something else for me to do, or say something, or, worst of all,  this hurt look would cross your face, and I can’t bare to be the cause of that look.  So many other people in your life have hurt you.  I don’t want to be one of them.  But because I did, because I stopped, I lost myself.  Who am I, Sherlock?  Who am I?”

“You’re John Watson.  You’re a caregiver.  You take care of me.  You make sure I eat, that I’m well, that I don’t get killed during an investigation.  You cleared my name.  You care about me.  You listen to me ramble and give invaluable advice.  You’re my best friend,”  Sherlock listed as many things that he thought were of value off.

John sighed, the ledge crumbling, “Exactly, I’m all of those things and each one is because of you.  I’m not me anymore.”  A sad look of resolve crossed his face, “And I think, that maybe, I need to find me again.  I...I need some time alone.”  He headed up to his room and Sherlock let him go, because he didn’t know what else he could do.

It took Sherlock longer than it should have for him to realize what those words meant.  When he emerged from his thoughts later that day, something felt wrong in the flat.  He looked around from the chair, noticed John’s coat wasn’t on the hanger, and a note in John’s chair.  Sherlock picked it up, his hands shaking, silently pleading that the note didn’t say what he was afraid it did.  As he read teardrops smeared the ink, some that had belonged to John and new ones added by Sherlock.

****

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I’ve never been a coward, but this time I’m taking the coward’s way out.  If I don’t leave now, while you’re deep in your head, you’ll try and stop me, and I’ll stay.  But I can’t.  I need to find me again.  I don’t know how long that will take.  I don’t know where it will take me.  But until I do, until I’m strong enough to be myself again, I have to go away.  I still consider you my friend.  You didn’t do any of it on purpose.  But I just wasn’t strong enough to be myself and be your friend.  I hope to be able to come back to you one day, but I will understand if you don’t want to see me again.  I tried to be the person who would never leave you, but I couldn’t be that person.  Because I couldn’t be my own person.  I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger for both of us.  Because we both deserved that._

_Always your friend,_

_**  
**John_

**Author's Note:**

> Writing is my therapy. This is not my head canon for John, just a way to get out my own emotions.


End file.
